


Apples Are Not the Only Fruit

by indieninja92



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a Sweetheart (Good Omens), Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, and to what end, but this boy, for the second half, hey thats nice, i dont even know what else to say, is that a tag?, its just... fluffy, no really i did so much research on the history of peach cultivation for this fic, none end, ofc regular crowley is a sweetheart too, oh this boy, pre-golgotha crowley is a sweetheart, weirdly historically accurate fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26193553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/pseuds/indieninja92
Summary: In Ancient Nineveh, Aziraphale receives an unexpected guest. It's alright though - he brought a snack to share.4,000 years and an apocalypse later, he finally gets around to saying thank you properly.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 104
Kudos: 242
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love





	Apples Are Not the Only Fruit

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [mortifyingideal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortifyingideal/pseuds/mortifyingideal) for their encouragement on this one!
> 
> also massive thanks to [GoodbyeVanny (TheFallenCaryatid)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFallenCaryatid/pseuds/GoodbyeVanny) for their gorgeous art of the opening scene, link at the bottom of the fic! <3

_Nineveh, 2600 BC_

Aziraphale rested his chin in his hand and let out a long, satisfied sigh. He was sitting on the roof, twisted around to prop his elbow on the low parapet, looking out at the view. Swifts darted across the sky, black silhouettes against pale gold. Below, the dried earth of the buildings took on a soft, pinkish tinge in the fragile light of morning.

Aziraphale had taken the house when he arrived a year ago, north of the river and close to both the cool, green gardens of the palace grounds and the bustle of the market district. It wasn't an especially well-to-do area. If he'd wanted to rub shoulders with Nineveh's highest and mightiest, he'd have been better off closer to the palace itself, in among the priesthood, or on the south side of the city where the wealthy laity made their homes. But instead, he'd chosen this; a simple, single-storey house that opened onto a road at the front, and a shared courtyard at the back. The roof in particular was a favourite roost of his. He could see and be seen, could call out to people as they passed and swap news or gossip. Or he could shrink back, watch the clouds, and listen to the chirping, fluttering conversations of the sand martins who nested in his walls.

This late in the spring, the temperatures crept upwards with every passing day, though it would be a few weeks yet before they reached the scorching summer highs. Nevertheless, some of Aziraphale's neighbours had already brought their beds up to their own rooftops to sleep in the cool night air. He could see some stirrings of movement as he looked out – the first of the early risers getting ready to start the business of the day. Soon, the smell of cooking would rise up around him, the sounds of families waking, children sent scurrying on errands, dogs barking for attention, the clamour of voices and building activity as another day in the great city began. But for now, a moment of calm, the deep inhale of night paused at the zenith of its breath, readying itself before the rushing exhale.

Aziraphale let his eyes flutter closed. It was a beautiful morning, and he had nothing pressing to attend to for the rest of the day. Gently, he let himself drift away into small, fractured points of awareness. The grit of the wall beneath his elbow. The brush of a breeze, cool and promising. The smell of woodsmoke. Somewhere far, far away, the river...

“Hullo!”

Aziraphale shrieked, eyes flying open as he turned to see who on earth had had the audacity to invite themselves up onto his rooftop at this time of the morning.

“Jesus Christ, Crawley!” he swore, pressing his hand to his chest as if to push the palpitations out of it.

Crawley's nose wrinkled. “Who?”

“It's a figure of speech. Oh, you gave me such a fright.”

At this, Crawley at least had the good grace to look sheepish. “Sorry,” he said. After a moment, he gave an awkward sort of wave. “Hi.”

“Well. Yes. I suppose... Hello,” Aziraphale managed, still flustered. He shuffled around to sit with his back against the parapet. “Fancy seeing you here. In my house.”

Crawley wandered over to the edge of the roof and looked over as if assessing the distance to the ground. At Aziraphale's words, he pulled a face. “Not really in it, am I,” he mused. “On it, really.”

Begrudgingly, Aziraphale relaxed. Whatever Crawley wanted, it clearly wasn't urgent if he was taking time to quibble semantics.

“Generally speaking,” he said, still feeling a little put out, “the roof of one's home is considered quite a private space. Somewhere for family. Or close friends.”

Crawley raised his head at that, and one look at his open, cheerful expression made Aziraphale feel immediately guilty. Fortunately, Crawley seemed not to have noticed the undercurrent in Aziraphale's words.

“That's such a good idea,” he said, sincerely impressed. He turned back to his inspection of Aziraphale's view, still smiling. “It's funny how they do that, isn't it?” he said after a moment. “Humans. Separate things off like that. Makes you wonder how they know.”

“Know what?”

“Who's who. Who counts.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, but found he didn't have an answer. He moved slightly, and the shawl around his shoulders slipped loose and fell, pooling at his elbows. He flicked his fingers idly in the fringing.

“It's very early,” he said, more an observation than a reproof. The longer he spent in Crawley's company, the harder he found it to stay annoyed at him. “I don't think I've ever seen you this close to dawn before.”

Crawley looked surprised, as if only now taking in the rising sun behind Aziraphale's head. “Oh! Sorry, were you sleeping?”

“Well. No. But,” he started, but Crawley had continued talking as if he hadn't heard him,

“It's only ten o'clock back where I've come from, isn't that strange? I mean it makes sense, time zones and everything, but it's one thing to know it's a thing and another to see it for yourself. When you go the human way it's always so slow you don't notice it changing. Do you reckon, if you went fast enough, you could stop the sun going down? Not actually, obviously, but from your own point of view, I mean. You'd have to be bloody quick about it, and you'd have to account for latitude...”

He went on. And on. Aziraphale's eyebrows started to draw together. If he hadn't known better, he'd swear Crawley was nervous – babbling about the earth's curve and rate of spin to try and avoid whatever it was had prompted his appearance.

Slowly, Crawley fell quiet. He stood with his hands on his hips, squinting at the sky. There was a flush of colour in his cheeks, strands of hair coming loose from the bun on the back of his head. Aziraphale bit back a smile, something like fondness stirring in his belly.

He pulled himself up to sit on the parapet instead of the floor, flipped the end of his shawl over one shoulder and stretched his legs out in front of him, wiggling his toes to get the blood moving again. When he looked up at, he found Crawley watching him, those lovely yellow eyes as wide and unblinking as they had been the first time they'd spoken.

“Please,” he said gently. “Sit down.”

A moment's hesitation, and finally Crawley took a seat, letting one long leg dangle while the other rested on the roof beside him. “I've been abroad,” he said. “For work.”

“Yes, I gathered,” said Aziraphale. “Anything interesting?” Crawley pulled such a face, Aziraphale immediately understood he'd said the wrong thing. “The clothes are lovely,” he said quickly. “Very impressive.”

That, at least, seemed to go down better. Crawley jumped to his feet, spreading out his arms. He wore a shimmering black jacket held shut with a deep, red sash. The jacket hung to his knees, and below was a narrow black skirt of the same luxurious fabric, decorated with another strip of red cloth.

Crawley looked down at himself and grinned, obviously thrilled with the whole ensemble. “It's good, isn't it?” he said, turning on the spot to show himself off. “I hadn't seen this stuff before – they make it with worms!”

“...worms?”

Crawley's face scrunched, retaking his seat with a shrug. “I think so? I'll be honest, I'm not sure I quite understood the details. But there's definitely worms involved somewhere.”

“I see. Well, regardless, it's very nice.”

Crawley smiled. “Thanks,” he said. A pause. His hands started to fidget in his lap. “They, um, they have these other things, too.”

Ah, thought Aziraphale. Now they were getting to the point.

“Oh?” He tried to sound interested without putting the poor boy on the spot. “What sorts of things?”

For a moment, Crawley didn't answer. His head nodded from side to side very slightly, as if weighing up the issue. Then he sighed.

“It... It seems a bit silly, now,” he admitted. “I'm sure you'd have seen them eventually. Only I'd never had one before and I thought...”

“Why don't we,” Aziraphale interrupted before Crawley could start himself babbling again, “see what it is and then decide whether or not it's silly?”

Crawley shot him a look, trying to be annoyed by this slightly patronising interruption and not quite managing it. “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Yeah, alright. Hang on.”

He reached into the front opening of his jacket, rummaging for a moment in a pocket that Aziraphale suspected wasn't quite part of the universe in quite the way jacket pockets usually were. Certainly he seemed to be reaching an awful lot further in than the dimensions of his tailoring should have allowed. Finally, he pulled out something about the size of his fist, holding it carefully as he lifted it free. He handed it over to Aziraphale, who had the decency not to notice the hot blush wriggling its way out of Crawley's collar and up his neck.

“They're a bit sweet for me,” Crawley was saying, “but as soon as I had a bite I thought, oh, I know someone who'd really enjoy this. They're so soft, you see? And look the fuzz. I don't know. I just thought... I thought you'd like it,” he finished, thoroughly mortified.

Aziraphale looked down at the item in his hand. It was a fat, round fruit, slightly larger than an apple and covered in a soft layer of fuzz that Aziraphale had the absurd urge to rub his cheek against. He turned it in his hand – and saw immediately why Crawley had been so embarrassed.

“Oh,” he said. “When you said you had a bite...”

Crawley groaned, getting to his feet. “This was stupid, I'm sorry – look, give it here, I'll just go back and-”

“Don't!” Aziraphale held the fruit out of Crawley's reach, suddenly protective of the little thing. “Don't be like that, Crawley, I don't mind. It's... Well. It's quite sweet, really.”

At that, Crawley really did turn pink. But it was true – Aziraphale was touched by the gesture, though he couldn't say he understood it.

“Sit down, dear boy, don't worry so. I'm sure it's delicious.” Reluctantly, Crawley took his seat again, one knee bouncing with nervous energy. “What's it called?” Aziraphale asked.

“Peach,” Crawley mumbled.

“Peach,” Aziraphale repeated fondly. “How lovely.”

He started to lift it to his mouth when Crawley said quickly, “Watch yourself – it's got a stone in the middle.”

“Yes, I can see that,” said Aziraphale, not unkindly. The edge of the stone was just visible where Crawley had already taken a bite, but Aziraphale appreciated the warning just the same.

He brought the peach to his mouth again and, glancing at Crawley for permission to proceed, bit into the soft, yellow flesh. Juice spilled out over his chin, taking him quite by surprise. He squeaked, lifting his hand to catch the drips and laughing delightedly. The flavour was marvellous, sweet and complex and quite unlike anything else he'd ever had. He swallowed, holding the peach out from his body to save the pale fabric of his tunic, and beamed.

“Oh, that's wonderful!” he exclaimed. “That's completely wonderful, thank you so much!”

Crawley's face lit up. “Really? You like it?”

Aziraphale could only hum in the affirmative, his mouth already full again. This time he was more cautious, sucking gently to keep as much of the juice from spilling as possible. He tipped his head back as he chewed, eyes closed, shoulders wriggling as he lost himself in the new experience. He heard Crawley laugh in happy surprise, and a thought struck him.

“Oh, but you must have some!” he said, his eyes wide.

“No, angel, I've already-”

But Aziraphale was on his feet, holding out the peach in what were by now thoroughly sticky fingers.

“No, you must – I can't eat it all, not after you've come all this way,” he said, putting his free hand in Crawley's and pulling him to standing.

“They've got plenty more back there,” Crawley laughed, a final, weak gesture to resistance.

“Nonsense,” said Aziraphale brusquely. “I insist. Here.”

And he held the fruit out with an air of finality. A shadow of shyness crossed Crawley's face. Aziraphale smiled and wiggled the peach in encouragement. Then, before Aziraphale quite knew what was happening, Crowley leant forwards and ate the peach straight from Aziraphale's outstretched hand.

There is a misconception among some philosophers that angels, due to their celestial nature, must perforce experience the world in a manner quite different to the way it's experienced by mere mortals. The question of how an angel might experience time, in particular, has been the subject of much debate over the years. Perhaps, the philosophers suggest, an angel sees time as a single great event, an eternal 'now' with neither beginning nor end. Or perhaps, say others, an angel sees time as a vast tapestry, each moment in its place, layered one upon another to create the intricate warp and weft of the universe.

The truth is, an angel experiences time very much as an angel experiences everything else in the world, from sunrises and peaches to leg cramps and lumpy bedrolls – that is, much the same way as everyone else. In the case of time, this means a generally reliable transformation of 'nows' into 'thens', speeding or slowing depending on how much attention the angel is giving to the 'now' at hand. An evening bubbling with laughter races past in moments, while the long longed-for return of a smile might seem decades in the making.

On a rooftop in Nineveh, time slowed almost to a stop. Crawley's teeth sank into the soft flesh of the peach. His eyes flickered closed, and the light caught his lashes to reveal the red in their darkness. Freckles, Aziraphale realised dimly. Crawley had freckles. A dusting of them over the high points of his cheeks and the side of his nose. As Crawley's jaw moved, his fingers squeezed gently where they still rested in Aziraphale's hand. His palm was hot and dry, slightly rough to the touch. His other hand was lifting, slow as a body through water, his sleeve falling to his elbow. The sudden trickle of juice on Aziraphale's wrist. Crawley opened his eyes and looked up at him, an expression of shy delight.

He pulled away, and time snapped back to its usual pace. Aziraphale was smiling. He didn't know when he'd started smiling. Crawley wiped his chin with the back of his free hand, chewed, swallowed.

“It's good,” he said, a little stickily.

Aziraphale nodded. He couldn't take his eyes off him. “Yes,” he managed. “Yes, it's good.”

Crawley's answering smile was quiet, a world away from his usual boisterous grin. Then he nodded at Aziraphale's arm.

“You're dripping,” he said helpfully.

“Hm? Oh! Oh, you're quite right, gosh...”

He looked around for something to clean himself up with, gave up almost immediately and licked the trail of peach juice from his arm. Crawley laughed.

“You can go ahead and finish it,” he said. “I brought it for you, after all.”

Aziraphale didn't need to be told twice. He polished of the rest of the peach in a few bites, dropping Crawley's hand to try and keep the worst of the mess from falling on his clothes. When it was done, he held the stone between thumb and forefinger and wondered where he should put it.

“Here,” said Crawley, holding out his hand. “I'll take it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Shouldn't leave it here,” said Crawley quickly. “Might germinate or something. What if it gets buried by accident and it grows and everyone's like, bugger me, brand new fruit, where'd this come from? Probably start a cult or something.”

It seemed a thoroughly unlikely course of events to Aziraphale, but before he could argue, Crawley had plucked the wet stone from his hand and was already squirrelling it away in his inside pocket. Well, thought Aziraphale, Crawley always had been a bit of an odd duck. Harmless, though, and even rather charming, in his way – which was an odd thought to have about a demon, and he decided to stop having it immediately, before it could run away with him.

He busied himself fetching a jar of water and sloshed some over each of his hands in turn, rinsing them clean.

“Are you staying long?” he asked, passing the jar to Crawley and shaking his hands dry.

Crawley made a noise in the back of his throat. “Not, um. Not really...” He washed his hands and set the jar carefully down on the parapet, looking around for something to use as a towel. “I only really came-”

“Here,” said Aziraphale, holding out the end of his shawl.

“Thanks. I only came to give you that,” Crawley said, carefully drying his hands on the outstretched fabric. “Just popping in, really. Don't have anything else to do,” he finished, shrugging.

“I see.”

For a moment, they stood quietly together, not quite looking at each other, listening to the city waking around them.

“There's a bakery on the corner that does the most wonderful bread,” said Aziraphale eventually. “Would you... Would you like to get breakfast together?” Crawley raised his eyebrows. “If you haven't anything to rush back to, I mean,” Aziraphale added quickly. “I expect you're busy. Forget I asked.”

“I'm not busy.”

“Right. Well. Good.”

Crawley smiled, warm and easy in the morning light. “Good,” he said. And it was.

_London, 2019 AD_

It had been three weeks since the world didn't end, and Aziraphale didn't think he'd ever been happier. From the moment he'd seen Crowley safe and sound and back in his usual shape, it was as if a whole series of knots started to slip themselves loose inside him.

Their evening at the Ritz had passed in a happy blur of cake and champagne, spilling over into a night in the bookshop having a very important discussion about, oh, something or other as they made a hefty dent in Aziraphale's newly restored wine cellar. Crowley had fallen asleep on the sofa some time before dawn, and when Aziraphale went to put a blanket over him, he was struck by a sudden surge of emotion.

The blanket, old and worn with use, hung where it always had over the back of the same tired sofa, waiting for the same tired shoulders to wrap itself around. But of course, it wasn't the same, not quite. Everything was different. Everything had been made new, the dust and the creases and the thin patches and the dog-ears – all of them painstakingly recreated by a little boy who knew very well the beauty of a much-loved thing.

Aziraphale felt such a surge of gratitude to the boy, he didn't know what to do with it. He'd saved them. He'd saved all of them, and then he'd made everything right again. A week ago, Aziraphale would have shied away from the feeling as too big, too much, too unwieldy. But everything was different now – even him, a little. Gently, he laid the blanket over Crowley's skinny frame, sat down at his desk, and let himself feel. He was right – it was a lot. But it was all the lighter for being properly held.

The days ticked by much as they ever had. Lunches, dinners, a trip to the theatre, walks in the park, rainy afternoons inside spent lamenting the end of summer. And every day that passed, Aziraphale felt lighter – weight he hadn't known he was carrying lifting itself free and leaving him giddy with relief.

Days slipped into weeks, and before he knew it almost a month had passed since that awful, exhilarating journey into hell and out the other side. Aziraphale sipped his tea and wondered if they should make an anniversary of it. He'd have suggested as much to Crowley, but the demon was in the middle of what seemed like a rather important conversation with himself, and he didn't like to interrupt.

“Is that so,” he said, recognising a break in Crowley's monologue as his cue.

“I know, I know, you wouldn't credit it,” Crowley said, vindicated. “As if you can draw a ring around it so easily, as if it isn't one thing bleeding into another until eventually it coalesces into something new. Now, don't get me wrong, New York was instrumental – of course it was, but to suggest...”

The shop sign was turned to CLOSED, the afternoon sun drifting sleepily through the windows. Aziraphale sat at his desk and drank his tea, and watched Crowley's hands disturbing the dust in the air. It would, he rather thought, be time for a little something very soon. He still had a few leftovers from the last time he and Crowley had gone for a drive – a bit of pork pie, some grapes, that sort of thing. Just a few little nibblies to tide him over before dinner.

“...the British invasion, see?”

“Yes, of course. Makes perfect sense.”

“I appreciate the desire, artistically speaking, to wipe the slate clean, declare yourself cut loose from history, all that stuff. But it just doesn't take into consideration...”

That had been a lovely day, thought Aziraphale happily. Crowley had picked him up in the morning and they'd had a gorgeous drive over into the Bedfordshire countryside, the sky above them huge and blue and brilliant. A bit of a ramble to get a decent view – much to Crowley's chagrin, though he had insisted on carrying the picnic basket so really, what could Aziraphale do? – followed by a wonderful picnic and a long, lazy afternoon picking through a punnet of strawberries together and drinking a rather excellent 1999 Chateau d'Yquem. He'd been quite pink in the cheeks by the time they'd made it back to the Bentley, from the food and the wine and the sun but most of all from the laughter – peals of it, ringing out across the hills like a triumph.

He swirled the dregs of his tea absent-mindedly, smiling softly. When he raised his eyes, he found Crowley looking at him from the sofa, a look of fond exasperation on his face. He'd taken off his sunglasses, something he'd been doing more and more lately, but regular exposure did nothing to dull Aziraphale's joy at the sight.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale, smile widening.

“Hello,” said Crowley, playing at annoyance even as the affection beamed out of him. “Where've you been?”

“Up a hill in Bedfordshire,” Aziraphale admitted. “It was very nice. Lovely company.”

“Hmm. Shame you can't get that sort of company here in London.”

“Yes, you know what Londoners are like.”

Crowley laughed, his eyes flashing lovely in the sunlight. A thought occurred to Aziraphale, one he'd had countless times before. And before he could help himself, it was followed by another – and another, and another, until a great rushing trail of pennies 6,000 years long finally crashed down to earth, each revelation more astonishing than the last.

“Oh!” Aziraphale cried, startling so badly he sent the last of his tea flying. “Oh, good grief, Crowley, it's _our_ side!”

Crowley jumped half out of his skin, almost falling off the sofa in his fright. Aziraphale hardly noticed. He leapt to his feet, throwing up his hands in dismay.

“I've been such a fool!”

Crowley stared up at him, confusion and horror on his face. “I'm sure you have, but why?!”

“Of all the stupid, bloody things!” Aziraphale paced back and forth, wringing his hands. “It's our side, Crowley! Don't you see? Of course you do, you always have, you saw it even before-”

“Angel!”

Crowley's voice cut through the frantic whirring of Aziraphale's mind, pulling him up short. He wore such an abjectly baffled expression that Aziraphale softened immediately.

“Oh, my dear,” he said in a rush. “I'm so sorry, I just- May I please kiss you?”

Crowley froze. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. When a noise finally did emerge, it had more in common with a dial-up modem than human speech. He seemed to have forgotten how to blink. When he attempted to shrug, Aziraphale briefly worried he'd do himself an injury.

“Sure,” he managed at last, his voice rather higher than usual. “'f you like.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Oh, good,” he said warmly. “I was hoping you'd say yes.”

He sat down next to Crowley on the sofa, scooting up so he could rest one hand on Crowley's knee. His other hand came up to cup his cheek, stroking his thumb across the soft skin. Crowley pressed gently into the touch, gaze flickering from Aziraphale's mouth to his eyes and back. He let his eyes fall closed for a second, and when he opened them, his fear had given way to quiet excitement.

“OK,” he said, barely a whisper.

Aziraphale smiled. “OK,” he repeated. And kissed him.

From the first brush of their lips, Aziraphale's sense of time began to crumble. The softness of Crowley's mouth, the bump of their teeth, the breathy, astonished laughter – it all took place in a space beyond the world, untouched by anything so prosaic as the passage of time. They moved against each in slow, languorous motions, easy as the moon and tide. Perhaps Crowley would have thought of them as a binary star system, locked in each other's orbit. Aziraphale thought of poached eggs spinning in a pot of water, an image so sudden and absurd it caught him completely off guard. He snorted, breaking the kiss.

One look at Crowley, hair in disarray, cheeks flushed, a look of perfect surprise on his face, and Aziraphale collapsed completely into giggles. Crowley laughed too, hopelessly lost but too happy to care.

“What?” he asked. “What's so funny?”

Aziraphale let his head fall to Crowley's shoulder, still giggling. Crowley's arms wrapped around him, long fingers playing in his hair.

“Nothing,” he said when he'd finally got a hold of himself. He pressed a kiss to Crowley's neck and snuggled closer. “Eggs.”

“Eggs.”

“Mm. It doesn't matter. I'm just being silly.”

That was true enough, often enough, that Crowley didn't push the matter. He leant back against the sofa cushions, pulling Aziraphale down with him. A little rearrangement and they found a comfortable position for them both, Aziraphale's head on Crowley's chest, arms loose and heavy round each other's bodies. The soft brush of Crowley's fingers in his hair was mesmerising. He closed his eyes and listened to Crowley's heartbeat, steady and strong beneath his ear.

“Not that I'm complaining,” said Crowley after a while, “but where on earth did that come from?”

Aziraphale wriggled to face Crowley as he answered, and promptly got distracted. When they pulled apart again, Crowley's lips were flushed and slightly swollen.

“Yeah,” he said, dopily. “That.”

Too many layers, Aziraphale decided. He sat up and managed to pull his jacket off without putting any more space between their bodies than he could possibly help. “Promise you won't laugh,” he said, rolling up his sleeves.

“Absolutely not,” said Crowley without hesitation, all his attention fixed on the slow reveal Aziraphale's forearms.

“If you're going to laugh, I won't tell you.” Aziraphale lay back down and made himself comfortable. “That's better,” he said.

“I'll say. I promise I won't laugh if it's not funny, how about that?”

“That,” said Aziraphale, “means less than nothing.”

“It does not! When I have ever laughed at something you didn't find funny? Maybe not at first, but you always come round eventually,” he added, dropping a kiss to the tip of Aziraphale's nose. “Go on,” he coaxed. “I know you want to.”

Crowley's fingers trailed patterns across his forearm. Aziraphale capitulated. “Alright then,” he sighed. “It was your eyes.”

Crowley's mouth was pressed against the top of Aziraphale's head, a kiss distracted by the smell of celestial shampoo. His voice was muffled as he said, “Let me guess – you saw my eyes and I was just so fantastically beautiful you decided you couldn't possibly wait another moment, you simply had to have me right here and now?”

Aziraphale snorted. “I'd hardly say a bit of snogging on the sofa is 'having you', my dear boy. And no, not exactly. Honestly, it was... Well, alright. If you really want to hear the whole thing. I saw your eyes, and yes of course I thought how beautiful they are. I always do.”

A happy, surprised little noise came from Crowley's chest.

“Well, I do,” Aziraphale admitted. “Always have. And I thought about how someone cleverer than me might describe them, and how they'd probably say they were like gold coins or something terribly romantic like, I don't know, firelight or amber or something. And I thought, they are lovely and they are like all those things but they're not really gold or amber or anything like that. They're yellow. They're a lovely, bright, happy sort of yellow. More like, like sunshine or...”

“Eggs?” said Crowley, and Aziraphale could hear the tease in it.

“No,” he said primly, “because I wasn't thinking about eggs yet. That was later, remember?”

“Of course. How silly of me.”

“That's alright, everyone makes mistakes. But I did start thinking about yellow things, and how if you think of a yellow fruit it's always a banana-”

Crowley burst out laughing. “A banana! Wait, sorry, was that-?”

“No, it's OK, you can laugh at that bit,” Aziraphale smiled. “Because of course bananas aren't at all the right sort of thing, only they are the thing most people think of when they think of a yellow fruit-”

“What about lemons?”

“Yes, I thought of lemons too, but-”

“Or melons, there's loads of yellow melons. Or a yellow apple, there you go – much more my wheelhouse.”

“Crowley, you're not listening!” Aziraphale swatted him gently on the shoulder, desperately trying to keep hold of his thread. “I thought of all of those! But then I thought, and you mustn't laugh at this part, OK?”

“Scout's honour.”

“I dread to imagine what kind of scout troupe would let you in it. Badges for petty theft and cow-tipping.”

“Angel, I don't know what you think I get up to of a weekend, but cow-tipping definitely does not constitute demonic activity.”

“That's not the point. The point is-”

“Bananas.”

“No-”

“Eggs?”

“Crowley!” Crowley settled down, though Aziraphale could tell he was still laughing to himself. Nobody would ever find Crowley quite as funny as Crowley did. Aziraphale took a breath and reminded himself of where he was trying to go with this. “The point is,” he said slowly, hoping the point would come to him as he said it. “I thought about all of those things and then... Then I thought about peaches.”

Crowley's fingers fell still. He was quiet for a moment. Then he kissed the crown of Aziraphale's head with such tender affection, Aziraphale thought he might drift apart entirely.

“You're right,” said Crowley gently. “That's not funny at all.”

They sat, warm in one another's arms, letting the thought sit between them. The sense of peace held even as Aziraphale started to speak again.

“I'd never been loved like that before,” he said, and Crowley's arm tightened around him. Something shivery and delicate was happening to Crowley's breathing, but Aziraphale knew that if he looked at him he'd never be able to get the words out. “It was so you, so absolutely you. Rushing to find me because you'd had something wonderful and you wanted to share. Wanted to share with me, specifically. You didn't think, you just... You knew I'd like it and that was enough to zap yourself three and a half thousand miles round the world just to give me a bite. Oh, darling, I'd never...”

He broke off, tears pricking at his eyes. His fingers laced through Crowley's. He took a deep breath and went on.

“So. I thought about peaches.” His voice was steadier than he felt, but he was determined to finish. “And I thought about sharing things with you. We've shared so many things – food, music, gallons of wine. Whole cities. Whole centuries. And then...” A blush started to rise in his cheeks, a note of coyness slipping into his voice. “Well. Then I started thinking about, um. Other things I enjoy. Things we haven't shared. That I think we might... enjoy. Together. That sort of thing...”

“Mm. That sort of thing,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “There's no need to purr. I'm already caught, you have me.”

“I'd hardly call a bit of snogging on the sofa 'having you'.”

“Yes, very good. You're very witty. Let me finish.”

“So soon?”

“Oh, for pity's sake...” Aziraphale hauled himself to sit upright, giving him the distance he needed to shoot Crowley a distinctly haughty look. Crowley did not look in the least chastened. “I was thinking about that sort of thing, and I know I'm inviting a whole world of eyebrow wiggling and lewd comments but it isn't the first time I've thought about them. You're very- Stop laughing!”

“No,” Crowley laughed. “Go on, what am I very?”

“Irritating.” Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat, resolutely ignoring the demon. He waited for Crowley to calm down before he went on. “This is the part that, you know. Took me by surprise. Because I've thought all of those things before – I'm sure you know. I've seen you sometimes, thinking it too. Those glasses don't hide half as much as you think they do. And the next thought, I've had that a thousand times as well – the thought that I should stop, put the idea away. How useless it was to think like that. How... How dangerous.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, a sound heavy with understanding. “Oh, angel.”

Aziraphale's eyes prickled. He looked at his knees, his hands bunching in the fabric. “And then I realised,” he said in a small voice. “It's over now. It's really over. We... We can...”

He broke off, and Crowley was there in an instant, wrapping Aziraphale in a fierce hug. “Our side,” he whispered.

Tears tumbled over Aziraphale's cheeks. He let them fall. He let himself feel it – he could feel it all now, safe in Crowley's arms, safe in his love. “Our side,” he repeated, heart aching with joy.

He cried for a while. It was a good cry – cleansing and cathartic, and Crowley held him through it, rubbing wide circles on his back. When he reached the soggy, sniffy stage, Aziraphale fished his handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped his face, and blew his nose.

“I'm sorry it took so long for me to realise,” he said, his stuffy nose making his voice thick.

Crowley made a shrugging sort of noise. “Less than a month,” he pointed out. “That's positively speedy for you.”

Aziraphale laughed, still a bit snuffly. “I know. I'm terribly slow sometimes. I don't know how you stand it.”

Aziraphale expected a joke. Instead, Crowley kissed his cheek and said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world, “I love you.”

Whenever he'd imagined that moment, Aziraphale had tended to imbue it with a certain amount of theatricality. They'd be in the middle of an argument, perhaps, or caught in a thunderstorm, or on top of a cliff somewhere dreadfully romantic with soaring views and all the accompanying dramatics of word and gesture. This was better. This was perfect.

“I love you too,” he said, and it turned out, it really was that easy.

“I, um...” Crowley began, and something in his tone of voice made Aziraphale turn to look at him. There were two points of colour high on Crowley's cheeks, he was looking everywhere but at Aziraphale. “I have something to show you,” he said. “But before I do, I want to make something clear, OK?”

He shot a look at Aziraphale, making sure he was listening. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

“Of course,” he said. “Tell me.”

Crowley nodded, apparently satisfied with this reassurance. “Alright, so, the thing is, it's not like I carry it around with me, alright? It's just, I put it somewhere safe, somewhere I can get to it when I need it-”

“It's in your pocket,” Aziraphale said. “I know how your pockets work, dear. I mean, I don't understand the mechanics in the slightest but I get the gist.”

He'd once seen Crowley pull a ficus the length of his torso out of a dinner jacket – Mary Poppins had nothing on Nanny Ashtoreth.

“Right,” said Crowley. “So, that's the other thing. You, um. You can't ask what else is in there. Alright? It's nothing bad or anything, I just... It isn't... I don't-”

“It's private,” said Aziraphale. He gave Crowley a reassuring squeeze on the knee. “It's quite alright, you're entitled to keep things to yourself if you want to.”

Crowley gave him a grateful look. Then, with the briefest flicker of hesitation, he reached into his inside pocket. After a moment's rummaging, he pulled out his fist, opening it to reveal-

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale breathed.

The peach stone sat, small and pale, in the palm of Crowley's hand. Aziraphale traced its bumps and ridges with his fingertips, transported back to a soft dawn in a sleeping city.

“Do you want it?” asked Crowley.

Aziraphale considered. “No,” he said eventually. He folded Crowley's fingers around the stone and dropped a kiss to his knuckles. “Keep it safe for me.”

Crowley slipped it back into his pocket, and Aziraphale politely turned his mind away from wondering what else might be hidden away in there after 6,000 years. He let out a long, happy sigh.

“What now, do you think?”

Crowley had sprawled himself back against the sofa cushions, happy as a cat in sunshine. “This evening, do you mean?”

“Well. To start with. Yes, this evening.”

Crowley shrugged. “Whatever you like, angel. The world's your oyster.”

Aziraphale made a thoughtful noise. Crowley nudged him, knee to knee.

“I know something we could do,” he said, his smile turning wicked. “Something you enjoy. Something we might both enjoy... Together...”

Aziraphale laughed, rolling his eyes. He met Crowley's gaze, thrilling slightly at the glitter in his grin. “At least buy me dinner first.”

Crowley let out a loud, theatrical sigh. “I've been buying you dinner for literally thousands of years! Talk about high bloody maintenance!”

“Lucky for me, you are a hopeless romantic. Go on,” he said, with just the hint of a pout. “Sweep me off my feet. I know you've been dying to.”

Crowley sat forwards, took Aziraphale's face in his hands, and kissed him, long and sweet. “Oh, alright then,” he murmurred. “If you insist.”

They kissed a little longer, and before Aziraphale could stop him Crowley was lying back again, pulling Aziraphale with him as their mouths moving against each other in an easy, steady rhythm. Aziraphale let out a hum of contentment, and felt Crowley's lips stretch into a smile under his own.

“Not just yet though, eh?” he laughed softly.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [black silhouettes against pale gold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278477) by [GoodbyeVanny (TheFallenCaryatid)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFallenCaryatid/pseuds/GoodbyeVanny)




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